6:23

Grey skies
Don’t stop the birdsong
Windblown hedges
Don’t dampen their spirits

I have risen early
For no real purpose
It is too soon
To make my love her tea

Poetry doesn’t begin this way
Even for Mr Bukowski
Why, by now there ought to be
Profanity, or words more profound

But, as the too slow camper-van
Crossing the New York Bridge
I also am moving too slowly
I need reminding how to flow

Perhaps a meditation
To contemplate the light
Say thanks to all creation
& the wonders of the night

Maybe an invitation
To a debutante’s ball
Or another Gatsby glorification
To sound his lost lover’s call

Besieged by past temptation
I stride out towards the fall
There is no simplification
When love to know is all

The love of one another
The brook beside the brawl
The sister and the brothers
The familiar tone to stall

As richness becomes discovered
& spitefulness is turned around
The day moves on upwards
Sad thoughts banished to ground

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I Could Say Her Conversation Was Inane

Early start
Yet much later than the sunrise
Looking at a picture
Of a bridge over a canal
It could be that Turner stayed here
Though on reflection I don't think so
I believe he was painting in Chichester

This is Chelmsford, with a cheerful oriental waitress
I could say her conversation was inane; but
What good would that do for anyone, least of all me

If I had more than my ambition
The jazz singer sings
Yet without any ambition
Isn't my day going to drag
Although the breakfast is good
And I might have the same tomorrow

There then, that's a thing to aim for
To smile, be jovial (on the surface)
Irrespective of the slow tides that ebb within

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The Key to Room 149

Seven o'clock is the wake up call in the hotel suite; next door but one down the corridor a door slams, the first executive is on the move

I press my mobile alarm to snooze, feel the early day sensation in my feet; the baths, showers and WC's set the plumbing pipes in motion

My meeting, a presentation by others, is at Ten AM, one hours drive away; as I enter that point into the iPod I realise it is time to turn on my own taps

Time to begin my mornings ablutions; but first to make a cup of English tea, while the tub fills with hot and lukewarm water; I mix in the complimentary bubble foam

I submerge myself in the three quarter length vessel; it is not a delicate movement, yet I am supported by the handrail. The shampoo is eco boutique, I put some in my travelling bags, next weeks rooms may not be so luxurious

My untidy stubble means I need to shave, it is a man thing, and tedious; that's why midweek I mostly wear the unkempt look, unless, as today, I am the public face of the company

Back at my desk, still writing, but now hurrying, for breakfast is at Eight sharp I told myself last night. I put on yesterday's clothes, I will change later, after a couple of rashers of bacon, with soft fried eggs

I put the trousers in the trouser press and go; the chambermaid smiles, she offers a warm good morning, it's been quite a while since I was a regular, but we do remember faces don't we; especially honest workers

The restaurant waitress is equally welcoming, asking sincerely how I am; she points out the weeping willows, starting to turn to leaf; I tell her that they are further on than at my daughters in Derbyshire where I have just visited my new born grandson (will he always now be in my conversation)

We talk some more about weeping willows, she has one in a pot at home; the meal ends with black coffee, toast and strawberry jam. I return to my room, passing pleasantries, again about my becoming a grandfather, on the way

The writing has to stop, time to focus and concentrate on the work; reading back I see I have told you a lot of little things, yet there is much more that I have left out

Next door’s telephone is ringing; it is left unanswered, she may already have left.

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Chimes Café

Some places get it just on right
With cream & green & rattan
The aroma of the baking
Travels with the light

The old cottage window
Preserved from the past
Candlesticks and flowers
Nought that moves too fast

The coffee & the flapjack
Tiled roof’s up to the sky
Another makeshift morning
Slow time; simply wandering by

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Premier

The cloth is cut
By a utilitarian

Breakfast cooked
By a journeyman

Out of the window
A dual-carriageway

Where are the songs
And the time to play

So contrived; the roll
Of out of focus flowers

On the bedroom wall
Hinting at a quieter hour

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Gloss

There was a photograph
Of the Italian restaurant
At the cross roads of Regents Street and Piccadilly

There was a photograph
Of the red lighthouse
Where we listened to the historian & film maker

These are in a magazine
Issued free to hotel guests
Partly to celebrate the area, also so that travellers
May feel more at home in their retreat surroundings

We had eaten in the very same San Carlo Cicchetti
It was the occasion of my sixty-first birthday
We drank a glass of forty-nine pounds a bottle Barolo wine
Passed on a taste of our dish, to the Irish-American travellers

We had met the historian and film maker by that red
Lighthouse, near the wobbly statues at South Shields
We were n our way to the Hebridean Isles via Sunderland
Edinburgh, Findhorn and Ullapool; he gave me a business card

Such that memories are remembered, in half-empty
Hotel rooms; such that triggers are triggered again
Wherever and whenever the sun goes down

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Meal Out

It is a room of archways
Circular details, rectangular
Mirrors & windows

It is a space with chandeliers
In line with the sea, lights
Perpendicular to the horizon

It is a floor, whose boards
Run diagonal to the walls
With wood-pattern frames

It is a roof, also forestation
Hexagonal and triangular
Patterns, of polished veneer

It is one person
Sat at a table for two
Hesitating for the next word

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Gourmet & Light

I like the crispy duck
Because I like the crispy duck
I am here alone
Why else would I like the duck

I am looking forward to the chow-mien
Because I can try to use chopsticks
I am here alone
Why wouldn’t I try something new

I thought I might watch the day disappear
Because of being on the cusp
I am here alone
Why not enjoy the mysteries of dusk

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Workday

The five bar gate leans out and over
Pulling at the barbed wire fence; these
Are the big fields, of Norfolk & Suffolk

A lament plays on the car stereo
Good times appear to be on the water
Where was I five minutes ago

I didn’t then know
Of the garden centre cafe
And the rows and rows of weedkiller

This restaurant I have been to before
But not alone, not alone in the early evening
Before the jovial ‘out for a good time’ diners arrive

I wonder at the decor, it’s neat, professional
The whole place sparkles and appears well run
Unlike the downbeat town where I fear to walk

Yet what connects me to the orient; I have never
Been there, I never really desired to; yet I’m eating
A chow-mien duck special, and reading Murakami

Becoming immersed in his hyper realisations
Joining him in streets, on trains, in temples
Thats as close as I’ve been; yet I’m almost ahead

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Break in Service

A camper, or a canal boat, or a caravan
To go places in confined spaces
Finding out, just who on earth I am

An iPod, or a laptop, or a roaming internet plan
To write letters to my so-called betters
Pointing out, the beauty wherever I can

Usherettes & launderettes & Kingdoms of Bhutan
To refresh our vests, and impress the rest
I hoped you’d halfway understand

That there is a decorum, a standard for this man
Who missed the introduction to love, but
Who tries to make up, to head off a lifetime ban

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Costa

I have found a place by the entrance
A good draught blows over my shoulder
The cake is Granola, yet
I am still embraced by Yorkshire air

Your jeans may also be tattered at the
Bottoms; we are all getting older
I will buy the crayfish & rocket
For high tea in my hotel room

This part of my lifetime, spent
In cafes, hotels and service-stations
Contributed to my downfall, in matters
Of health, and in affairs of the heart

In recompense it now offers me my writing
The opportunity to observe, the chance
To sip my coffee more slowly; I am
In no hurry, do not rush to reply

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Balcony

I have moved
Into the outdoor sunlight
There is a pleasantly cool breeze
School children gather on the grass

I have a view
A tree covered in catkins
Taut wires
That act as a barrier

I can hear the wagons, or
Maybe they are tractors
Moving up the hill
Out of my line of sight

The young teachers eat cake
Already they look dismayed
At the prospect of a lifetime
Of saying don’t do that

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Prophetic

There is light
From the blue sky
There is evidence of love
In your text message

I have noise & disturbance
It is being human
With a history
Piled up behind me

We could be on the sands
With wind in our hair
Sharing the love
That nature gives us

I have words
That won’t stop pouring
It is being human
With a future ahead

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Onzekerheden

Nearer to the hurt
Further from the ache
Leave the time to suit
Of patience still to wait
Beyond the mirrored view
Into the smoke and mist
To sit beneath the window
Ease into the drift

In the instant's instant
Sounds, near and far away
Love of all that’s distant
She feel’s though to say
Nearer to the hurt
Further from the ache
Leave the time to suit
Of patience still to wait

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Pictures

Entente Cordiale
A sort of dialogue is begun
Backslapping, thin & light
Yet a beginning for all of that

The programme is installing
With what hopes
That the photographs
May be recovered

The database is upgrading

A peace of love
Such fleeting, moving stillness
That brings a facial likeness
To the new morning

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Strike Back

In this early hour
Woken by the dawn’s chorus
I feel a lightness
Love comes from many places

I am fond of written words
Yet respect the view
That they are a departure
With the dishonesty

Of being quietly considered
Not spoken, in the rush
Of conversation; their
Stillness hides the passions

That might erupt, which
Have erupted in the past
Slower words are a safer haven
Yet still so full of absoluteness

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Birthright

On the day after warmth came to spring
& daffodils flowered, beside new mown grass
The young boy came into our lives

On an evening when sunlight streams
Through leafless trees, I look more closely
To see the sticky buds beginning to open

That he too might enjoy the birdsong
Among the peacefulness, both now
& also in his later years

That his parents may soon walk out with him
In the countryside; also play endlessly together
On the soft sands, by sparkling seas

That love should come our way
Is itself the miracle of life

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R & R

Almost the final patrons
In the university museum cafe
Until two sisters enter

Glasses, worn for indignation
Which may soon be released
If the counter staff do not return

Why would I make it difficult
Keep it sweet, keep it short
Keep it within the limitations

I often make ill defined connections
From this obscurity to that, from
One nowhere circumstance, to another

As in the letters
Where the flow is lost;
One river stops

One river starts
Discontinuing their
Breaks in continuity

Where tired shoes tramp off
Without guidance; their footfalls
Fall where footfalls have always fallen

Stolen, from the lack of a campaign
Without cause enough to believe in
As if to say: Yes, I am treading water

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Royal

Tiredness takes me

To the coffee shop

Already I feel slightly lighter

As I remember the young man

With puffed up eyes; his lost gaze

Makes me feel way more fortunate

It wouldn’t do

To focus on negativity

The day to day of her life

Is way too beautiful

I have found a seat, in

The museums upstairs alcove

With a window, to a tree

Whose sticky buds welcome

The somewhat delayed turn

From winter to spring

It is more true

The locus of connectivity

The time to time of seasons

She is so sure of beauty

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Vigour

Brown and green and intense
Navy and neat and no pretence
Not so for those who quietly view

To yawn with absolute splendour
All intent of boredom
Theirs to eschew

With the strength
To defend attention
Contemplating
Most, or all of the truth

Sufficient to walk, crossflow
Across the floorboards
We, who wait to see why
It is she who takes the next step

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Intake of Breath

Tiredness, dullness
Again excess takes its toll

Always an irritation
Calls for the scrape of movement

Always the failure
Of concentration provides my escape

I am a fake
Of contemplation

Which itself
Is beyond my state of comprehension

I am out of tune
In mind and body, I am flaked

Rest for rests sake
May be the only stake-able cure

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All In

It will be some time
Before you find me

I look out
Of the window
To the canal; also
In the foreground

My gaze falls
On a straight and plain
Drinkers glass
Used now as a vase

Filled with sunflowers
Tulips, and bluebells
From the woods

My body is exhausted
I have the beginnings
Of a stitch in my shoulder

A result of four long days
Walking, while wearing
My winter overcoat

The exhibition is exuberant
With the works of Vincent:
His ten years as an artist

Given
(We pay 15 euros each)
For all the world to see

Would I have remained
In the yellow house?

Would I have stayed beneath
The blossom in the orchard?

Would I? I might
Except for the fear of practice

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Modern

With the familiar
We are familiar
Yet close up
One eye is green
One eye is brown

& the vertical lines
Are masculine
& the horizontal lines
Are feminine

Within three rooms
To see Mondrian
& Gabo
& Spencer

As daylight falls
Through the window
Blinded
With a fine mesh gauze

Some works
Are never realised
With others
We are never
Familiar, so it seems

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Third Morning

It is the grey mist that wraps itself
Around our borrowed houses

It is the cold air that enters through
Our closed and open windows

It is the time that will bring back
The blue sky and the sunlight

It is all of these and more
Perhaps

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KL 1490

It is the simplicity, there to make one more attractive
In this case a cloth belt, wrapped twice around the waistline
Just sufficient, to create the outline of the female form
Adding to the beauty of this world everlasting

The flight represents the spread of nations, humanity
On the move. We question the goodness of people
I am inclined to think more good, maybe many more
Kate is inclined to think less good, maybe many more less

Beside me the passenger reads
Chapter XIII of William and the Ancient...
We do not share conversation. I write these few words
To remind me of a Saturday morning, the first in April

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Overdone

I didn’t go to meditation
I didn’t go on a spiritual retreat
I didn’t have a soothing massage
Nor have reflexology for my feet

Mostly I did nothing, nothing
Neither in nor out of doors
I didn’t go big city shopping
Nor set-to, on washing the floors

First plans fell by the wayside
Taking the wind out of our sails
Snowfall and the fearful frost fright
Forced the horse-racing off the rails

We did drive out into the country
For a pale ale and pub pie lunch
We walked through the graveyard
To hear our footfalls crisply crunch

I didn’t offer up much excitement
My conversations so slow to start
I hope I didn’t mean to mislead you
Your place is firmly in my heart

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Escapology

I have no more desire
My desire’s run through
I have no one else to tell
My colour’s turned blue

The unsteadiness of breeze
Rocks me as the aspen leaf
Thoughts of a ne’er-do-well
My riptide spurns its grief

I have the telegraph time
My rhyme’s still to choose
I haven’t a defining spell
My delectations are loose

The dull-grey cloudy sky
Folds away as the thief
Tomorrow I’ll maybe dwell
My hope is thus so brief

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6:23

Grey skies
Don’t stop the birdsong
Windblown hedges
Don’t dampen their spirits

I have risen early
For no real purpose
It is too soon
To make my love her tea

Poetry doesn’t begin this way
Even for Mr Bukowski
Why, by now there ought to be
Profanity, or words more profound

But, as the too slow camper-van
Crossing the New York Bridge
I also am moving too slowly
I need reminding how to flow

Perhaps a meditation
To contemplate the light
Say thanks to all creation
And the wonders of the night

Maybe an invitation
To a debutante’s ball
Or another Gatsby glorification
To sound his lost lover’s call

Besieged by past temptation
I stride out towards the fall
There is no simplification
When love to know is all

The love of one another
The brook beside the brawl
The sister and the brothers
The familiar tone to stall

As richness becomes discovered
And spitefulness is turned around
The day moves on upwards
Sad thoughts banished to ground

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Essex and Suffolk

Nothing more than the sunrise
& the sundown & the words
Of the earth and heaven between

Except that life is a bit more complicated
Already two hundred miles from home &
A further stretch to drive this evening

There is a strong sun, in a clear blue sky
The roads are already heavy with traffic
I will do a days work, then go & join them

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Pictures

Entente Cordiale
A sort of dialogue is begun
Backslapping, thin and light
Yet a beginning for all of that

The programme is installing
With what hopes
That the photographs
May be recovered

The database is upgrading

A peace of love
Such fleeting, moving stillness
That brings a facial likeness
To the new morning

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Doubtful

I wouldn’t take it past the line end
Unless I was certain of my position
Better to be unsure
Better than being mellow

I wouldn’t try to find a rhymed blend
Other than the strength of my indecision
Better to be blue
Better than being yellow

I wouldn’t close or sign the letter off
Without the crisscross of my derision
Better to be lured
Better than being a good fellow

Insight et al

I walk across my home town
Between two drawing offices
There isn't a real desk space for me in either
My old boss Roger wants me to design
An aircraft refuelling system

I tell him it's all about
Finding the right operational staff
The second office is really busy
A meeting of everyone is called
I see this as an opportunity to slip out

A fox approaches me on the petrol station car park
It bears its teeth and harasses me
I shout and wave a stick but I am frightened
A big dog grabs the fox
Eventually it works the foxes head between its jaws

Before determinedly and manically crushing
All life out of the bereft wild animal
It was a dream that I couldn't leave
In the same way I couldn't leave
Another work dream earlier in the week

In another of tonight's dreams I was explaining
The solution to a control system problem, & even
Though I knew the fix was to move the measuring
Device nearer to the process being measured
I had doubts that it would be correctly implemented

It seems to me the dreams are about a lack of control
Doubts about the resolution of issues
I am neither able to complete a task, or walk away
In the morning I find that a Fox in ones dreams means:
Insight, cleverness, cunningness and resourcefulness

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One Or The Other

It is with the knowing

That in the coming hours and days, months and years, there are tasks that I have to accomplish, conversations that I have to join, that are not of my own choosing, not of my wish to be doing

And with such knowing

Comes my disturbance; a feeling of being unsettled, of being always behind the clock, of being left with no time just to be, of being unable to make any sort of decision, or commitment

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Wasn't, Isn't

I wasn't the one for your symphony
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

I wasn't the one to think of me
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

Your persona, it led me along
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

You took me to places I didn't belong
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

I stood on the sands
While you swam topless in the sea
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

You said lovers no more
I went down on my knees
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

The more I doubted
The less I breathed
I wasn't the one
I wasn't the one

She danced in the clouds
I strolled by the lea
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

She was painted to tease
Where my eyes couldn't see
I wasn't the one
She isn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me
I wasn't the one
She sure wasn't for me

So you laugh at my song
And you laugh at my singing
And you don't really know
When next I'll be ringing

She wasn't the one
If it wasn't for me
She wasn't the one
If it wasn't for me

I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free
I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free

I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free
I wasn't the one
Then this song set me free

Pretext

Out of one shadow
And on into the next
Tree lights and stand pipes
And whatever you least expect

Hedgerows that sparkle
Time here then to detect
Travelling these roads
On a one-way connect

There is happiness
To dust off the regret
Then there is a solace
With the joy to inspect

I am only working
I amn't trying to be correct
These last ten years now
I sure won't forget

That first time you rang
Yo paid call-collect
Your songs soon arrived
Our souls to protect

You wish it made sense
For your rebel school-prefect
Out of the limelight
Into his silence, so often flexed

Compartmento

Cellular accommodation
A view of the mountain
A view of the lake
Stillness of the chapel
Before the wedding celebration
Joy, in the community
Who are joined together for dining

So to retire, as one
To the singular peace
Of the single-bedded room
With the solitary window

There with still air
Just one book
With plain paper for the writing
Contemplation
For all those pilgrims
Who aspire to be closer to heaven

Also the divers
Diving for lost treasures
Breathing deeply
For the plunge into ice-cold water
Before the heartbeat quickens
And the bare chest rises and falls
With the, female Adonis', breast of beauty

Wholesome

I sat and watched the sun go down
I sat and watched the dusk arrive
I waited, to see the North Star glow
I slept as well as many a night

I woke with recurring dreams
Each line so bright with illumination
I am at one at these times, but
Should I let these words ever speak louder

Time Out

Take a seat, you say to yourself
Take a seat by the fishpond
Explain, you say to yourself
Explain the purpose
Of the bright and shiny
Spinning disks, spinning
On each bank of the water
Listen, you say to yourself
Listen to the buzzing flies
The harmonious birdsong
And the sound of pigeons in flight
Look again, you say to yourself
Look again at the goldfish
Look again at the swarms of midges
No one knows you're here
You say to yourself
As you feel the sun on your shoulder

Woken By Broken

I am awake
I should be sleeping
I am sat here writing
I should be dreaming

I am alone here
It is in keeping
I have been working
But mostly daydreaming

There is a spider
There on the ceiling
It does no harm now
That is my feeling

It is after midnight
This April evening
All is in darkness
A time for thieving

Doors are bolted
Locked from levering
Who prowls out there
Is it the Badgers breathing

I Looked Behind Me

Tom Carney
Where did you go to

After that great big build up
After you said in the pub
Christopher, you should call that
'The perfect poem'
For it has all of the elements
Nostalgia, loss, lament, longing
(my words not yours)
For myself I was entranced
What with your well told stories
Your intention to write a famous novel
Your already begun work; to be a benefactor
For Ireland's impoverished returning community

So I wonder Tom Carney
Where did we go to

Centre Line

There is a wide path, with trees and sunlight, it goes direct in line, to the spire of the town hall

There is a breeze, that turns to a wind through the park, it goes direct in line, to the core of the average man

In the daydreams, and in the daytime, he heard the library calling, he reads the poems, of the master poets passed.

In the future, as in the past-times, he will observe his inner vibrations, he will bless his soul, for being so full-on alive

Stretch

The infinite is finite
So strip away the debris
Find the salient sentient self
Bathe in shallow waters
Float on settled seas
The finite is infinite
So strip away the debris

From the salient sentient self
Tear those last few leaves
Scatter to find a path
Shuffle to make a journey
The finite infinite
Is finite, so
Strip away the debris

Early Viewing

Already; bright greens, soft pinks; light breezes, strong winds
Over and away, where there is no one already knowing
One to one and one to many, all for doubt and all for show

I engage in the anti-calm of memory
While listening to the mindfulness of breathing
What is the sense of the tree branches
Vibrantly and frantically waving
What is the sense of the wild, stirring whistle
Through the ill-fitting doors and windows

Already; lilacs, photographs; daffodils, enamel jugs
Under and near, where there is no one already deceiving
One to one and one many times over, all for love and all for show

Break

We had spelt bread
Sandwiches
With cheddar, cucumber and rocket

We sat outside of what is to become
Our creative and meditative salon
A hundred years of dust on our faces

One more morning's, hard and dirty
Labouring work in there behind us
Many days of future joy ahead

How will we hang the pictures
How will we lay the chairs
How will we choose the music

The flags are to be pressure cleaned
A border of Cotswolds cobbles
To act as our French drain

Richard is due to return
To complete the glazing's
Red cedar cladding

In the chiaroscuro
Glasses of pink champagne
Printed invitations and Bon homie

A hundred years
Of civilisation in our hearts
On the day we ate spelt bread

Retreat

I have to smile, even when
The feeling was, way back then

I can't explain, what blue skies do
I am peaceful now, my love is true

Holiday time, on open roads
Time to be, time to see the broads

I have to smile, as if in zen
I had worked it out, with my friend

Reclaimed Land

The legs of the wicker chair
Sink into the turned over ground
The breeze blows over my face
Bringing with it the birdsong

Andrew chops logs
With the splitting maul
He wears yellow safety glasses

Ruth and Kate turn soil
As if turning soil and talking
Comes naturally-ordained
To womankind's evolution

Springtime in England
For simple folks
With pastures to cherish

Graft

I chopped a few logs
Enough for this week
On Andrew's wood-burner
But before the heavy, physical work
I had sketched the orchard garden
With most dry and powdery pastels
It is a two hundred and seventy
Degree horizon, which plays havoc
With my limited sense of perspective

I am then told that Malham Cove
Is in the distance, and that
On a good day the sunshine
Reflects clearly off the limestone
Nearer to hand I hear the partridge
And next door's children playing
Such as they do, when
Searching for chocolate eggs
On this happy sunny Easter Sunday

Boy To Man

Feels like I'm eighteen again
Walking down the gravel drive
Wide Oxford bags
Flapping in the breeze
Tall and erect
A good days work behind me
I might talk about that one day
But right now
It feels like I'm eighteen again

I Or Almost Or I

I make this mark as a way to begin

A doorway through which to enter

The music is vaguely religious

With deep folk root overtones

The heavy curtains are drawn

Spotlights cast long shadows

I have read from Edgelands; learnt of an artist by the name of Chell who might well have captured the verges that I hoped to draw, or at least to write of

I have read from Falling Upward; of the two halves of life, reflected on my strong similarities to the failings of others on the road to immaturity

Before the fever takes hold

As I fear the fever no doubt will

I stretch full to say then take me

To write as would a man possessed

I make this mark as a way to end

A doorway through which to depart

Fury Poems - A short collection
Read free on Issuu

At The End Of Night

Daylight creeps into the valley
In search of the crowing voices
Beat of the pheasants wings
Brings vibrations physicality to glass
It is all that stands between human warmth
And the strut of winged courtship

The clocks tick-tock
Yet the alarm is silent
Once again I have woken
Before the time to wake
To peer across the flat frosted grass
Over the stream to the woodlands

Banks of trees that rise in an instant
A vast array of intense greens
And golds, and browns, and yellows and cherry reds
Yes, also the girlish wisp of the eastern silver birch
We all, so it seems, stand erect
In search of the photosynthetic energy of light

Fury Poems - A short collection
Read free on Issuu